Making the most of every hour of daylight, we take a long ride, from Edinburgh to Glasgow, on 2017’s shortest day
We didn’t let the shortest day of 2017 get in the way of a decidedly long ride from Edinburgh to Glasgow
It’s just after eight o’clock in the morning of 21 December and we are standing shivering at the end of a pier beneath the Forth rail bridge waiting for the sun to appear. Members of the local lifeboat crew walk past carrying a human torso. Closer inspection reveals it to be a plastic one for use in first aid demonstrations.
“Where will the sun come up?” I ask one of them.
“Over there,” comes the reply, pointing to a dark promontory jutting out into the river.
The sky is already starting to turn a dull amber glow in that direction. It’s time to clip in. Sunrise here in South Queensferry will officially be at 8.42am. Our plan is to race the celestial orb across Scotland and arrive in Helensburgh on the west coast before it sets at 3.46pm. We are riding from sunrise to sunset on the shortest day of the year – what could possibly go wrong?
If anything does go wrong, at least we’re in good company. Dr Robin Hoyle is one of the bosses at Glasgow Science Centre and a trained member of his local mountain rescue team. While he doesn’t possess the power to stop the earth rotating on its axis and grant us a few more minutes of daylight, he is at least able to explain the physics that govern the winter solstice. And he can also build us a snow hole should things really get out of hand.
Guided tour
The Doctor – “Please don’t call me a boffin, us scientists hate that, it trivialises what we do” – is also good at providing a running commentary on each of the various engineering wonders we pass during today’s ride. The railway bridge above us, for example, is a UNESCO World Heritage site, putting it on a par with the Taj Mahal and Great Wall of China.
Less impressive is the gauntlet of smoke-billowing stacks we ride through at the sprawling petrochemical complex of Grangemouth, which is more Coronation Street than Blade Runner. It’s a relief to emerge into the relatively fresh air of the Forth-Clyde Canal towpath.
Shortly after this we are confronted by the sight of two
giant horses’ heads looming out of the mist as though they’ve just burst up from the earth’s core.
This is my first view of The Kelpies – mythical water horses - and the utter absurdity and beauty of them almost sends me wobbling into the canal. I regain my composure and edge slowly nearer. Robin goes into full-on science mode about the materials and construction process but I’m more interested in the imagination that produced them.
We stop for a coffee in their shadow – they tower 30m high - and I learn that local sculptor Andy Scott was inspired by the story of a Clydesdale called Carnera from the 1930s that pulled a wagon for local drinks company Barr – producer of Irn Bru – and was supposedly the largest working horse in the world.
Before crossing the canal and rejoining the towpath, Robin has to sort out a problem with his rear brake disc. It’s during this brief interlude that I discover his scientist’s opinion of ever-changing bike technology is
It’s a case of gritting our teeth and grinding up through the gloom The utter absurdity and beauty of The Kelpies almost sends me wobbling into the canal
refreshingly blunt: “I don’t understand why anyone wants to spend thousands of pounds on a super-lightweight or aero frame when they could just lose a bit of body fat if they want to go faster.”
Lock, stock
About a mile further along the canal is the Falkirk Wheel, another spectacular feat of modern engineering, though this one more functional than fantastical. The world’s first and only rotating boatlift connects the Forth-Clyde Canal with the Union Canal 30m above us. Previously, this could only be accessed via a set of 11 locks that took all day to navigate.
Robin launches into a lengthy explanation of how each lifting operation uses only the same amount of energy as boiling eight kitchen kettles – it’s the weight of the water that provides the impetus - though to be honest by this stage I am freezing and keen to get pedalling again.
For the rest of the ride, the wonders will be natural rather than manmade. It’s only after we have shaken off the last vestiges of urban development that Robin, who arrived for today’s ride suffering from “the lurgy”, reveals he needs “some juice” – Glaswegians are under the collective belief that by calling all sugary drinks “juice” it gives them a healthy veneer.
I notice for the first time his bottle cages are empty – he forgot to pack his bidons. I have a full, untouched water bottle on my bike, but there’s no way I’m sharing it with Dr Phlegm. Out of sympathy, I tell him I
won’t take a drink myself until he’s able to have one. He is eventually resuscitated by a can of Red Bull at the foot of the day’s big climb.
As the road climbs towards the Carron Valley, we seem to have shaken off the grey, sepulchral gloom of the morning. There is even a patch of blue sky and a brief sensation of warmth, but it is shortlived. From the highest point we can see tendrils of mist snaking up through the valley and snuffing out views of its reservoir. We have no choice but to descend into its icy grasp where we will remain for the rest of the ride.
The Crow Road over the Campsie Fells is one of Scotland’s classic road cycling climbs and where Robert Millar put in the hard training miles on his way to becoming the first Brit to win the King of the Mountains jersey at the 1984 Tour. I’ve reassured Robin that we are ahead of schedule so can afford to take the 5km ascent at an easy pace. The steepest ramps – nudging double-digit gradients – are at the bottom, while the rest of the climb is a tiresome drag full of false crests and crushed hopes.
Nothing to see here
At the top of the steepest section there are usually impressive views of Ben Lomond and other peaks but the mist has wiped these out, so there are no excuses for photo-stops. It’s a case of gritting our teeth and grinding up through the gloom.
At the top there is the briefest respite from the chill when the mist lifts, but no sooner have I optimistically put my sunglasses back on than we are entombed
once more. The descent features an arrow-straight section usually taken at high speed but today we embark upon it with caution and a thousand lumens blazing.
We arrive in the village of Blanefield just after 1pm with two thirds of the route completed. I calculate that this allows us 50 minutes for lunch, and when we arrive at an empty café where the owner greets us with a friendly, “Sit down and I’ll bring you the menus,” I sense the stars are in our favour. I’m wrong.
A couple of the café’s lunchtime regulars arrive and we are quickly forgotten. Eventually, the owner takes our order. Two paninis and coffees, please. He disappears. Another couple of takeaway customers come in. They too are given priority. Then our host returns empty-handed with the news he doesn’t actually have the ingredients for our paninis. It feels like being in Royston Vasey, of TV comedy The League of Gentlemen infamy: “This is a local shop, for local people”.
Our schedule is now seriously under threat, and we are both ravenous. I start putting my gloves and helmet back on and say we are going to have to find somewhere else. I have no idea if Blanefield even has another café, but we are burning daylight waiting for food that may never arrive or even actually exist.
The café owner panics: “I can do you cheese and ham toasties and coffees to take away?” Okay, but we need them ASAP.
They eventually arrive, and we throw them down our necks there and then while our hapless host spends the next 10 minutes handwriting a receipt and phoning a friend for a VAT number. It turns out he wasn’t the owner after all, merely a relative doing him a favour.
We clip in and almost immediately start another stiff climb up to a beauty spot called the Queen’s View. Needless to say, Queen Victoria’s favourite panorama of Loch Lomond has been obliterated by the mist.
By the time we arrive in the lochside town of Balloch we have fallen behind schedule to beat the sun. Then things get worse.
With only 10 miles to go, the signs for the Loch Lomond bike path inexplicably lead us into the labyrinth of a Christmas market full of tree vendors and chestnut sellers. After circling the German Kiss cakes stall for the third time, I’m starting to get anxious, and Robin is feeling nauseous.
Time running out
With mounting desperation, we press on in the direction of the main road – the notoriously busy A82. But before we reach it, and just after the
Bird of Prey Centre, Robin spots a tiny blue sign sticking out from a lamppost: Loch Lomond Cycle Path.
The final stretch of the bike path to Helensburgh is a carpet of thorns, twigs and other arboreal detritus. The last thing we need is a puncture so close to the finish, so I’m contemplating joining the main carriageway – an endless procession of motorists who have confused an imminent two-day public holiday with an apocalyptic event requiring mass mobilisation – when Robin tells me my back light has stopped flashing. It’s one of those button battery affairs and, sure enough, has died as a result of me being so presumptuous as to use it for the last four hours. We are forced to stay on the bike path.
With three miles to go and still no sign of the long, sweeping descent the profile on Strava had promised, we are catching up with another cyclist looming in the murk ahead. It’s some old boy weaving from side to side on an ancient sit-upand-beg bike. I shout a warning that we’re behind.
His erratic steering continues, leaving me with no room to squeeze past. I shout again, louder. Only when I’m on his back wheel do I see he’s wearing earphones. Surely our plans aren’t going to be scuppered by a Christmas drunk listening to Scandinavian Death Metal as he cycles home from the pub? The road finally starts going downhill and we arrive at Helensburgh pier exactly eight minutes before the sun is due to set. We find a bench and sit down, looking west over the Firth of Clyde. We are confronted by a gunmetal sea and the same grey smudge that has haunted us all the way from the Firth of Forth.
At the appointed hour – 3.46pm – the view remains exactly the same. There is no faint reddening of the horizon, no discernible dimming in the light. Everything is as drab and bleak as it’s been all day.
A couple of labourers are packing away their tools behind us. We ask them the way to the railway station. “Two minutes up there,” is the reply.
They’d obviously overhead our conversation, because as we ride off they call after us: “Sorry about the sunset lads. Merry Christmas!”
We are confronted by a gun metal sea and the same grey smudge that has haunted us all the way